


Not Alone

by syndrigastidreamer



Category: Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children - Ransom Riggs
Genre: Crushes, M/M, Nightmares, innocent babies in love, light fluff, there is literally nothing offensive or harmful here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-31 23:12:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8597473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syndrigastidreamer/pseuds/syndrigastidreamer
Summary: Horace wakes in the middle of the night from a nightmare and can't get back to sleep, which is nothing new for him. Of course, that isn't to say that it's pleasant, either. It's strange to think that anyone could feel alone in a house with so many others, who mean so much to him, but at times like this he does. That doesn't mean he's right.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just gonna say it, I am currently super rusty when it comes to writing fanfiction, so don't be expecting the world! But this fandom, and this pairing in particular, need and deserve so much more attention and content; thanks mainly to these two boys, I was dragged out of my fanfic slump at last! I'll be writing a multi-chapter enorace story soon, this was just me warming up, so be looking out for that maybe! Please let me know if you have any notes for me, I would appreciate that so so much.

For one Horace Sommusson, waking in the middle of the night from a horrific nightmare—which may end up actually becoming a horrific reality; it can be difficult to tell a regular nightmare from a prophetic one—is certainly far from a notable event. Tonight is no exception. Though he wakes in tears, shaking and clinging to his bedsheets so hard it hurts, several of his pillows having ended up on the floor somehow, one thing he isn't is surprised. Once he has blinked the nightmare/vision away and come safely back to reality, he finds his silver lining; at least he woke up alone this time, presumably having avoided screaming himself back to consciousness, dragging Miss Peregrine and likely the rest of the children right along with him out of whatever—hopefully more pleasant—dreams they may be having tonight. It means the world to him that they care so much, of course; he knows what it's worth, having people who worry about your wellbeing. Who crowd around your bedside, then wait outside your door for Miss Peregrine once they've been sent away, just needing to know you're okay before they can sleep again. He doesn't mean to be ungrateful; he just dislikes worrying them, ending up fawned over and embarrassed, crying and sweaty in his bedclothes, thoroughly unpresentable. Little Claire and Olive usually end up in tears, worrying about him so much, so avoiding it isn't strictly selfish of him! Surely he has a right to what little privacy this loop, full of all the most important people in the world to him, can offer him. He prefers to keep his visions private when he has the choice, not needing the extra attention or to scare anyone unnecessarily if the 'vision' ends up being just a garden variety nightmare. If he's really worried, he can always go and speak to Miss Peregrine alone in the morning. He doesn't want to end up in a 'boy who cried wolf' situation, or to be a nuisance to the others. They deserve their sleep. 

He takes several minutes to silently collect himself, breathing deeply until his heart is beating at a normal pace again, wiping tears from pale cheeks, and running his fingers through messy, wispy strands of white-blonde hair, tousled terribly while he was thrashing around in his sleep. Once he has accomplished this, he stands and pulls on a silky black dressing robe with matching slippers. He needs some fresh air. It's not like he's going to be able to get back to sleep again anytime soon, anyway, shaken as he is with such awful scenes waiting just behind his eyelids to haunt him some more. The almost-silence outside is different from the almost-silence in their house, it's even more peaceful, and he has found that this along with the gentle glow of the moon and stars always calms him. He just has to stay close to the house, afraid of wandering off alone into the darkness, even just through their front yard. On his way out of his room, every movement and step careful and quiet, he comes close to putting one slippered foot right into a delicate porcelain cup of gently steaming tea. He places his foot carefully back where it had been before, one step back, and curiously bends to pick up the small tray that someone must have just set outside of his door. 

Along with the cup of tea, there are tiny containers of milk and honey on the tray, just the way Horace likes, and a plate of cinnamon cookies, a few leftovers from the batch Bronwyn baked for everyone earlier this evening. So, his nightmare disturbed someone else other than him after all; someone who was already awake but didn't want to approach him directly, someone who has been out of bed this late frequently enough that he knew, or at least was reasonably sure, that Horace would end up leaving his bedroom and finding this tray. He feels puzzled for barely a moment; after all, there's only one person, other than himself, who tends to be awake at this hour. Still, coming from Enoch, this feels like an oddly gentle, sentimental gesture. It isn't entirely out of character for him, of course; he's no teddy bear, but no one who really, really knows him, who has been around him for as long as everyone in their loop has, could fail to notice how much he cares about each of them in his own way. It's just not something he would admit, or try to draw attention to. It must mean that Horace wasn't the only one, all this time, noticing and paying attention to the soft late-night noises of a housemate who is frequently awake at all hours of the night, but does not want to be disturbed. It also means that Enoch was worried about him, and wanted to make him feel better; it's a clearly caring gesture, and he did it anonymously, not wanting credit or, probably, for it to ever be mentioned at all. Horace retreats back into his room, thinking about Enoch and no longer motivated to go outside. He sets the tray on his desk, pushes the window above it open, and sits down to enjoy his tea—it's even more calming than silence and starlight, as it turns out—nibbling absentmindedly at the edge of a cookie, his mind somewhere (with someone) else.

When he has finished his tea and still hasn't managed to push Enoch from his thoughts, he decides to go and see if the other boy would very much hate having a visitor. If he seems truly bothered, more so than he pretty much always is, Horace will just apologize and leave. Try to sleep again, maybe. He leaves the tray in his room, a mess for later, and pads softly down the hallway to Enoch's door. He knocks so gently he's afraid the boy on the other side won't possibly be able to hear him, but he has to be careful not to wake anyone. Also, secretly, he's feeling a bit nervous all of a sudden. It's unusual; everyone in this house has been together far too long to make each other nervous anymore. He doesn't have a name for the anxious fluttering in his stomach, and he doesn't have long enough to come up with one before the door before him is swinging open, silent on carefully polished hinges, and Enoch is staring out at him almost—but not quite—blankly. He's still wearing the same overalls and button-up shirt he was wearing at dinner (with no socks or shoes), and Horace realizes that he's almost never seen him in sleep-appropriate clothing.  
"Yes?" Enoch raises an eyebrow, impatient. "To what do I owe the pleasure, at this hour?" The words are tinged with sarcasm, but it's just on the surface. There's no venom in his tone. "Did you need something?"  
"Oh. No, nothing like that, not really." Enoch kept his voice soft, and Horace follows his example. He shakes his head, at a loss for words suddenly and surprised by it. He's feeling weirdly, unexplainably nervous and for no good reason, and there's an unusual fluttering sensation in his stomach, but he isn't one to shy away from speaking his mind. "Just some company, if it isn't a bother. Maybe you could use an assistant, just for a little while?"

Enoch sighs and looks like he's going to turn down the offer—request?—but then he is stepping back, holding the door open for Horace and gesturing for him to enter.   
"If you're going to complain about the mess, you can just go," he deadpans as he closes the door gently behind him.   
It's definitely cluttered, a word Horace could never use to describe his own bedroom, and it isn't pleasant clutter either, like the stacks of books and seemingly random pages of notes scattered around Millard's room. At least Enoch doesn't have to worry about him touching anything. He quickly clears an assortment of jars—empty, thankfully—from a chair, and pushes it slightly toward his visitor. Horace sits, crossing his knees politely and not uttering a word of complaint about the state of the room, lest Enoch keep his word and send him away.   
"I was out late collecting some sheep's hearts," he smirks at Horace, "how about you get them cleaned for me, assistant, while I prepare their jars? You wanted to help, right?" Horace looks absolutely horrified, taking a deep breath and opening his mouth to say something, when Enoch interrupts him with a laugh—almost a giggle, honestly—pressing a hand to his stomach and shaking his head at Horace, his expression distinctly fond.   
"Don't bother," he removes his hand from his stomach and holds it up to stop Horace from speaking, with a softer chuckle. "I have a more Horace-appropriate assignment. I can't believe you fell for that, you seriously should have seen your face."   
He goes to his desk and brings Horace back a small box, dropping it unceremoniously on his lap. It's full of tiny, tattered uniforms that belong to his homunculi—they're constantly needing repairs, holes stabbed and slashed through them limbs sliced off, and Enoch is terrible at sewing—along with a small sewing kit. He gets to work on his hearts while Horace mends tiny clothing, working in comfortable silence. 

Finally Horace has repaired every uniform, working to make sure each one is in perfect condition once again, although he knows they'll just need fixing again in a week. The sky outside Enoch's window is brightening, streaked with soft orange and pink.   
"Well," Horace yawns, setting the box down in his lap and covering his mouth primly, "my work here seems to be done, and I could really use another hour of sleep before we have to be up for breakfast."  
Enoch looks up from his work which is close to being complete as well at this point, to meet Horace's sleepy gaze with a vaguely drowsy smile of his own.  
"Alright, just come back and let me know if you need any monsters chased out from under your bed, or maybe from the closet," he teases, then adds more gently, speaking fast before he can lose his nerve, "you were surprisingly a halfway decent assistant, even in your..." He shrugs, "anxious state. Feel free to stop by again, if you can't sleep. There's always mending to be done; I could use the free labor." He affectionally pokes the stomach of a homunculi sitting on the desk right next to his hand, and it wiggles—in Horace's opinion—adorably, as if tickled.  
Enoch doesn't want Horace to feel alone, hidden away in his room after those nightmares, afraid and with no one to talk to. He just doesn't have it in him to say all of that. But they both understand.

Horace nods almost shyly and stands to set the box on Enoch's bed, where there's plenty of clear space, making his way to the door before turning to address the other boy once more.  
"Goodnight, Enoch," he murmurs softly even though it's technically morning; for Enoch, this is nighttime. He's the only one who tends to never make it to breakfast, just grabbing something from the kitchen later when everyone else is playing outside or helping Miss Peregrine or just entertaining themselves in their rooms, and it doesn't look like this morning will be any different, breakfast being in approximately two hours (Horace needs the extra hour to get ready before showing his face downstairs).   
"The tea was perfect, by the way. Thank you." He had planned on not mentioning that little gesture, on leaving it unspoken, but he just can't resist; it's worth it, watching Enoch's cheeks flood with the loveliest indignant pink. Horace even winks at him, giving him a teasingly cutesy little wave before stepping out into the hallway, politely closing the door behind him.   
He doesn't get a lot of sleep, in the next hour, too filled with aggressively giddy butterflies. But hey, he isn't complaining. 

No one comments on the fact that the two of them change their normal seating arrangement at lunch the next day to sit next to each other, without either of them having to suggest it aloud. They barely even speak; they don't need to, they just feel comforted by each other's presence. For now, that's enough for both of them.  
It feels natural when Horace joins Enoch under his usual tree that afternoon, silently reading an old book he borrowed from Millard while homunculi hold a miniature battle in front of him, one casually sitting on his lap.  
Enoch has nothing to say about the fact that, after a while, Horace has accidentally drifted off to sleep—lulled by the gentler sunshine—and his head falls gently onto Enoch's shoulder. Nor does he move or wake him, just rolling his eyes with a soft, secret smile, moving his book onto the grass beside them, and beckoning his little army to keep quiet.


End file.
